


i'll make it all up for you

by tinsnip



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: M/M, Waiting, Wistful, the time between
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-08 07:31:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5488841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinsnip/pseuds/tinsnip
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In between the realization and permanence, there's the waiting.</p><p>Wistful little songfic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i'll make it all up for you

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is courtesy of [Heart](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aucFYXskEok), by Stars. If you like it, please consider purchasing it from [iTunes](https://itunes.apple.com/ca/album/heart/id6933421), [Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00B3ERVNG?ie=UTF8&*Version*=1&*entries*=0), or your music retailer of choice.

_time can take its toll on the best of us_  
_look at you: you're growing old so young_  
_traffic lights blink at you in the evenings_  
_tilt your head and turn it to the sun_

_sometimes the tv is like a lover, singing softly as you fall asleep_  
_you wake up in the morning and it's still there, adding up the things you'll never be_

* * *

"Are you running yourself ragged, my dear?"

"Hardly. Things are much less stressful here these days."

"Then why do you look so tired?"

"What, am I not as young and vibrant as you've come to expect?"

"I don't think I said that…"

"You may as well have."

"It's simply that you seem… older, now. Something about your eyes, perhaps."

"I don't know if I should take that as a compliment."

"Cardassians value age."

"So you've said. But you've also paired 'older' with 'tired'."

"I suppose that's certainly been my experience. Every year I feel more fatigued."

"Yes, well… we've both been through a lot the last few years."

"An understatement… still, you are taking care of yourself?"

"I am. I promise."

And it's a lie, because he isn't, not really. He's taking care of everyone else instead. The constant torrent of station visitors pouring into and out of the wormhole, the diligent officers, the venerable priests, the tourists, the soldiers: they all come to him, eventually, and that makes his days worthwhile.

It's good to have a purpose. He needs to have a purpose. He needs to feel that he's needed, because at night he comes back to his quarters and finds only himself there, and that makes him feel as if he's not needed at all. No one stays for him. No one is waiting.

Sometimes there are conversations. On the nights there aren't, he falls asleep to the sound of the station newscast, chattering quietly to itself about who is coming, who is going, who will fill his day tomorrow, and now and then about things echoing from the wider worlds. News from Earth, from Bajor, from Cardassia, from a thousand worlds, all of it of interest if he wasn't so tired, and so instead he lets himself drift as the words whisper to him, and when he wakes up he remembers only scattered phrases, images: irrelevant to him, unimportant to who he is now.

Days pass one at a time, and he's so tired.

* * *

_time can take its toll on the best of us_  
_look at you, you're growing old so young_  
_traffic lights blink at you in the evenings_  
_you tilt your head and turn it to the setting sun_

_you disembark the latest flight from paradise_  
_you almost turn your ankle in the snow_  
_you fall back in to where you started_  
_make up words to songs you used to know_

* * *

"And what about you? If we're going to talk about people looking older, we should start with that rather distinguished little streak of grey you seem to have developed—don't tuck it away, I've already seen it."

"How unfortunate."

"…things are hard there, aren't they."

"Yes. But less so, every day."

"You must be bone-tired."

"I somehow find the strength to rise anew each day."

"I'm filled with admiration."

"As you should be."

"And you're sleeping all right?"

"Well enough."

"So not much at all."

"As I said: well enough."

On the day he'd stepped back on to Cardassian soil, he'd almost expected it to slip out from under his foot, rejecting him: _you do not belong here._

But it had held him up just as before. It had not held his past against him. Somehow, nothing had.

Oh, there were eyes that had looked at him with cool appraisal, faces that had shadowed expressions, but nothing to catch hold of, nothing that could support any true disdain. There was too much need. His hands were hated hands, yes, but even hated hands could fetch and carry and lift, and soon all hands were the same.

He had fallen back into things so easily. His feet had traced paths he'd always known. Through clear streets, through rubble, they knew the way, and he had moved with them as if he'd never left, pretending it was so.

But no one had talked to him.

Now, still, no one talks to him.

Brief exchanges, yes. Politenesses on a train or between customer and shop-owner, yes. The equivalent of sonar, judging distance only, recognizing the presence of something that is acknowledged only as it is moved past. But nothing more.

He can't seem to find a way to fall back in to the fabric of things, back into the interchange of ideas, the joyful banter of words that is what he missed the most. The Kardasi he hears and uses is utilitarian. There is no beauty in it, no one who cares to hear words dance.

At night, on his less-than-comfortable bed, he sings to himself, he murmurs pointless poetry. Nursery rhymes, snatches of doggerel, the occasional well-loved poem… no one can hear him, and so why not? Sleep is hard to come by. There can, at least, be song.

* * *

_the hard rock god, he never had a chance, you know_  
_incurable romantics never do_  
_he held a flame i wasn't born to carry_  
_i'll leave that dying young stuff up to you_

_you get back on the latest flight to paradise_  
_i found out from a note taped to the door_  
_i think i saw your airplane in the sky tonight_  
_through my window, lying on the kitchen floor_

* * *

"Back to Hefa again. You do love Hefa."

"I'm not bringing it back to her, I'm simply making the point—"

"—that she imagined all things as possible, that if we could all only be as optimistic and bright-spirited as Hefa—"

"—I didn't say that, I'm only saying that I think she's one of the few redeeming characters of the book!"

"Only a Human would ever say that. Wait: no, that's not so. Captain Sisko would never have said that. Only _you_ would say that."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Captain Sisko was a realist, my dear."

"And I'm not?"

"Not in the slightest. One of the things I enjoy most about you: your relentless conviction that things will get better."

"And you're an unrelenting pessimist, absolutely convinced that the universe is full of miserable people just aching for a chance to betray each other."

"You think I'm wrong?"

"I prefer to think you are."

"Why?"

"Because what's the point of living in a universe where there's no hope?"

"You think that being realistic precludes the existence of hope?"

"Well, doesn't it?"

"Not at all. For example: I hope your romantic view of the universe is the correct one."

"You do?"

"Absolutely. I may not be able to believe in a universe of kind, good-hearted people, but I'm heartened that you do."

"I… well, I'm glad."

"Do be careful, though."

"How do you mean?"

"Incurable romantics tend to die young. Or such has been my experience. And I'd hate to lose you."

 _Sorry,_ says the note on the pillow beside him, _called back early. Didn't want to wake you. I love you. I'll be back as soon as I can._

Horrible Federation penmanship. He sits on the bed, holding the note carefully, studying the words.

Well, Julian would have been leaving today at any rate. There's really no reason to feel unusually upset. And they'd had five days together: more days in a row than they'd managed in months, days clawed together from duty leave and voluntarism, late nights and blazing afternoon sun. Five days, good days.

It's never quite enough.

He stands, note in hand, and moves to the window, peering at the sky. Ra'ajev hasn't shown herself yet: there's only Ca'pris, smirking to himself in the night. There are more stars than he's used to; it still seems odd, somehow, being able to see the stars clearly in Kardasi'or. Once the city had blazed in the night… now the dim emergency lighting is dotted here and there with brighter white, and the feeble imitation of the sky above is not nearly enough to dim the stars.

Here and there, stars are moving. Transports, shuttles… at least two space stations. Perhaps even a starship, circling in silence.

One of them may contain Julian.

That seems a harmless enough fancy.

 _Soon, my dear,_ he says to the sky, and the note is cool in his hand.

* * *

_all right: i can say what you want me to_  
_all right: i can do all the things you do_  
_all right: i'll make it all up for you_  
_i'm still in love with you, i'm still in love with you_

* * *

"It's fine. I promise. I'm fine."

Or perhaps:

"I'm tired, I admit, but I'm managing well."

Or:

"I admit, I'm busy, but you know me, I like it that way. Never happy unless I'm working!"

Sometimes:

"Really, my dear, there is so much to do, I can hardly spare the time to rest. I prefer to be busy."

After the longest day:

"I'm doing good work here, Garak. Meaningful work. It's what I want to be doing."

And the hardest day:

"I assure you, my dear, while my return to Cardassia is perhaps less than I had originally hoped for, there is nowhere else I'd rather be."

If they say it to each other, every time, then it can be true. True enough, at least. True enough for now.  


Each of them knows that 'true enough' is the best kind of lie.


End file.
